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POEMS. 






ZQ3 



BY 



GOLD-PEN 







PHILADELPHIA: 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO 

1856. 






Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1855. by 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., 

In the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the United States in and for 
the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 



The gem that doth, surprise the gazer's eye 

Was found by long, tired search. Its pent up rays 

Of darting light were loosed by patient toil. 

And so the work that bringeth sudden joy 

Costless, unsought — was weariness to him 

Who wrought its each proportion, long before 

As a new thing 'twas greeted by the world. 

But having fashioned it, and turned away 

From its stale contemplation, he at length 

Looks back, and with fond eye, what others praise 

Sees doubly fair— thus reaping a reward! 
3 



CONTENTS. 



PAGS 

Silent Influences, 13 

Labour, , 15 

Nature, 19 

Thought Astray, 24 

The Necessity of Faith, 30 

Praise, 32 

My Desk,, 34 

A Spring in the Woods, 39 

The Angel's Visit, 42 

A Bat, 58 

The Angler, 6 

The Philadelphia Library, 61 

Sabbath Afternoon, 65 

Premeditation, 71 

The Lofty Place, 73 

Little Ellie, 76 

The Poet, 85 

Autumn, 39 

Eventide, , , 90 



VI CONTENTS. 

The Secret Sin, 94 

Self Love, 97 

Our Appointed Place, 99 

Our Changing Frames, 103 

The Sculptor, 105 

Our Life, 106 

"Putting Off," 108 

The Dining Room of the Old House, 110 

The Release, 133 

A Cloud, 134 



POEMS. 



SILENT INFLUENCES. 

The sunshine silent .falls upon the bud, 

No voice doth answer, but the secret cell 

Within enlargeth, and the embryo hid 

Swells and perfects itself to the full flower. 

The writer sits in some lone room apart; 

He uttereth there no word, his arm toils not : 

He holds his pen, and as an idler seems ; 

Yet from that quietude do thoughts come forth 

That as with wings do fly from heart to heart 

O'er the wide world with moving influence. 

It is not by the sound nor show without 

We judge of the result. He who doth all, 

Curbing this fleeting world and all the stars, 
9 



14 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Doeth it silently. Canst thou stand forth 
Far in the forest, when each early shoot 
Peeps from the rugged bark, and every blade 
From the moist earth springs up in its own place, 
Canst thou hear then a whispering 'niong the leaves 
New- waked to life ? Or canst thou from on high 
Discern the voice that calls them ? From the world 
That marks the limit of an angel's flight 
To this our lower world ; from this again 
To that most distant in the opposite space, 
An unseen silent influence pervades 
And orders all things. 



LABOUR. 

The artist seeks when his last piece is done 
For a new subject. Many in review 
Are led by fancy. He doth choose but one. 
To it he yields his thought and for the time 
Seeks that it may enamour him, by love, 
To summon forth to effort all his powers. 
How can he woo the thing he doth not love ? 
Or what he thus hath sought with entreaty 
Till oft repulsed, desire has turned aside, 
How can he follow longer? 

The miner feels no hardship in his toil 
When all the ground is rich. It yields reward 
At each upturning ! then each thing puts on 
A look attractive, — the surrounding scene, — 
The lonely vale — the stream that waters it, 
"Bearing down from the mountain scales of gold, 



16 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Seem separate from the wealth they hold for him. 

To have a luring beauty of their own. 

But let him pass the richly yielding spot, 

And labour by its side with no return, 

Forth from him slowly spreads an influence 

"Which seems to change what is in truth not changed. 

So is it with our verse. We, as it were, 
Walk on the margin of some lonely lake, 
Looking beneath its waters. When still, clear, 
We see the pebbly bottom and discern 
Strewed there the pearls we seek for, where we may 
Stretch forth our hand and gather them, or where 
At greater depths they lie yet in our sight, — 
So by descending we may bring them up — 
Then all the air invigorates, — we haste 
Joyous upon our way ! But while we walk, 
If these same waters dim and muddied grow, 
And we must search at random here and there, 
Groping for what we see not, weary soon 
Both of the place and labour we become. 
One moment we do love our page, it brings, 
Drawing them swiftly forth in definite form, 
Thoughts that had shapeless flitted thro' our mind ; 
Or sometimes those we never knew before, 



LABOUR. 17 

Robed in fair words, drop finished from our pen ! 

We look upon them with their first delight, 

And lay them by, gladly enticing more. 

1 Tis but one moment, but a backward step 

From this to deep disgust ! — the current ceased, — 

Or all it offers inappropriate 

There comes confusion and bewilderment, 

That robs us even of the power of choice ! 

Toil hath been ordered as the lot of man, 
And so is its infliction carried out 
That not one, poor or rich in mental gifts, 
But if he will excel where lies his task, 
Must so excel by labour. Thou may'st bear 
Great talents, and some great work yet undone 
3Iay be reserved for thee ; yet if thou dost 
Reach thy high place and honoured destiny, 
Not in the smooth dress of the man of ease, 
Biit in the labourer's garments thou shalt come. 

Look through the world, of all that is possessed 
By men, that thou would'st covet to possess, — 
Of skill or high attainment, what is found 
That hath been reached by any other road ! 
Though thou inherit the high seat that rests 



18 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Upon the summit of a kingdom's throne, 
Still, if thou would'st bring honour to thy name, 
And well dispense the powers that cluster there, 
For wisdom thou must labour, — searching far 
Through her great garners where alike she calls 
Peasant and Prince to gather for himself. 

The poet, whatsoe'er his gifts may be, 
Still finds the brightest veins lie hidden deep. 
Is he who tracks the silver thro' the rock, 
Or sifts the grains of gold, less diligent 
Than he who doth more plenteous metal seek ? 
Our place we choose not. One doth cast our lot 
Where He hath formed us for, — yet all alike 
To labour. His day labourers are we. 



NATURE. 

A FROG upon the margin of a spring! 

Part of the furniture by nature placed 

To quite complete this still, inanimate scene. 

What sentiment, thou green and croaking thing, 

Can I now gather from thy panting form ? 

If thou could'st tell thy history, no lack 

Of subject would there be, lone sentinel! 

Here is a world we think not of. From here — 

This little fount — this basin ever full — 

How many draw new life up day by day ? 

The tortoise comes here, pauses on the brink, 

And drinks, — in that one necessary act 

Perfect by instinct as we are by thought. 

What small proportion of full rational thought 

Is in the impulse which doth it impel 

To turn amid the far off furrowed field, 

And truly, by an unmarked lowly path, 
19 



20 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. . 

Seek the wet margin of this gurgling spring? 
The infinite irradiations sent 
Of intellect through all the countless ranks 
And orders of his creatures, God doth know, 
And he alone the measure marks of each. 

Now while I stand beneath the shade, methinks 
This is misnamed a silent solitude; 
For countless voices from the mossy ground 
Rise up around me, — not the din of trade, 
But the loud humming of the insect world, 
As busy here as man is where he dwells. 
Hark, from the trees! birds to each other call, 
And though they know it not, carol to me. 
Far as my eye can through the forest reach 
I see bright beams from the meridian sun 
Fall here and there between the parted boughs, 
Check'ring the green pathless floor beneath. 

Often when pent within the city walls, 
And scenes like this have risen in my thought, 
I have believed that could I thus but stand 
Free amid nature and her outspread works, 
My thirst were satisfied. I stand there now — 
The visible reality more full 



NATUKE. 21 

Of beauty than the unreal picture was. 
Am I then satisfied, and is that thirst 
For something yet untasted quenched within ? 
Oh no, the stream I parch for flows not here ! 
Why do I cheat myself and promise still 
My heart this comfort ? yet not all deceived, 
For well I know, as to my final faith, 
And those last joys which only can be full, 
That Heaven alone can yield them. Still I find 
From day to day as on life's path I go, 
Impatient to have nothing, that I look 
For some repose at each turn of the way, 
And so reap disappointment ! Better far, 
Both for the sake of duty and content, 
To tell my heart, and crown it with belief 
That here it hath no portion, but must go 
Stripped save of hope, unto the journey's end: 

And yet, oh nature, did He not spread forth 
Thy fair green fields, and rear thy mountains up, 
"Who placed within us the discerning mind 
To see their beauties? Did He thee adorn 
And give us eye and ear and answering sense 
To feel delight when looking in thy face 



22 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

That tills sweet harmony between us both 
Should be but void and empty? 

Thou lookest on some fragment of the past — 
Some carved sarcophagus which hid hath lain 
Covered up, unknown for a thousand years ; 
And the dim fancies that around it throng — 
Fictions upsummoned but from thine own brain 
Give it an interest. But when in thy search 
Through all its parts, the closer scrutiny 
Reveals some strange inscription that doth tell 
Who slept there in his ancient sleep of death, — 
Giving the name and lineage of a king, 
How doth that interest deepen into awe ! 

Thus, once I walked beside a murmuring brook 

In early youth (I know the stream yet well, 

And where far through a wooded glen it winds,) 

Feeling a consciousness of strange delight 

Indefinite, such as I could not speak 

The nature of, nor the source whence it sprang. 

Yet as I followed on its grassy brink 

Noting its falls and eddies — -leaping now 

Across its bosom to the firmer side, — 

Now sitting down beneath some spreading tree, 



NATURE. 23 

Gazing and listening to its gentle song, 

There was imparted to my childish soul 

A sense of beauty and a real joy. 

This was the first touch of that answering chord ■ 

Placed in my bosom,— the first opening 

Of that perception which notes nature's charms. 

But as I grew, and this instinctive sense 

Deepened with years, it was made known to me 

That all these charms were fashioned by the hand 

Of one who loved me, and that nature stood 

Robed as she was, not to embody forth 

Some unknown God, some dim unformed belief 

That we, kept back from any near approach, 

Should darkly worship her, or Him in her; 

But by God's hand thus veiled from my sight, 

To witness of his present power and love. 

As thou would' st walk amid mementos spread 

From one beloved, yet hidden from thine eyes, 

So walk I amid nature ! and if now, 

After a circling pilgrimage of years, 

My steps were led back to that early stream, 

Not by the mind's maturer growth alone, 

But by this new interpretation given, 

Would all its beauties show to me more fair. 



THOUGHT ASTKAY. 

Thou lovest me ! Tell me now what is love ? 
Four letters and one impulse of the voice ! 
Thus much it is in sound — oft 'tis no more ; 
But what in truth is love ? 

Far to the north, 
Ev'n from the centre of its frozen plain, 
I start upon my search. Each lone recess 
And icy cavern or wide snowy waste, 
I tread with downcast eye, till to the edge 
Of winter come, I overstep his reign 
And pass into the intermediate space — 
Fruitful, — a mighty field of waving grain, 
That lies between it and the burning zone. 
Then following on, cross the imagined line 
That like a belt binds endless summer in. 
Still seeking, on I pass till the great world 



THOUGHT ASTRAY. 3 

Is compassed by my footsteps, and I stand 
Upon the icy pedestal first left. 
And yet in all the search I have not found 
One visible thing that shapes this feeling forth. 
The world is void of it ! where shall I look 
For love's sweet likeness, or its palpable form ? 

Thou'st trod the world in the vain search !— now stand 

Still where thou art and turn thine eyes within. 

Is it dark to thee ? — burns no candle there ? 

Eyes that do reach without the stars of heaven, 

Within, pierce not a single finger's length ! 

But there are some who too much look within. 

For as to look without alone, doth dim 

And blur the mirror of thy consciousness; 

To gaze in it forever and to grow 

Enamoured with the study, doth neglect 

A most demanding part of thee — thy flesh; 

Letting its ties unto the outer world 

Decay for want of use and separate. 

And when these ties are once so broken off, 

Believe me, such a shrinking fills the soul 

From seeking to unite their bonds again ; 

That mostly the dividing space doth grow, 

Wider and deeper, till the sensitive gulf 



26 POEMS- — BY GOLD PEN. 

Thou passest not and none do pass to thee. 

A winter lies about thee : round thy heart — 

Between it and all others it is cold, — - 

A snowy space — a barrier of ice 

Invisible, but felt, doth hem thee in. 

Thou comest forth, dost jostle by the way 

Thy fellows — treadest the same earth with them — 

Breathest the air they breathe — dost feel their sun — 

Speakest with many, yet in brotherhood 

Of purpose and uniting sympathy 

Thou walkest separate in another world ! 

And thou art conscious of it. They know not 

What 'tis that chills them while insensibly 

They wrap the formal mantle when ye meet; 

But thou dost know, the cause lies at thy door. 

Thou watchest every motion, every look, — 

A smile hath power thy need demandeth not, — 

A frown doth wound where swords sh'd blunt their edge. 

Thou hast grown sensitive to looks and breaths, 

Motions and glances, all these magnified 

And changed from their own unessential life, 

Are armed against thee — fancied enemies — 

All quick — the zephyr's breath doth wound at last, 

Till life to thee hath grown a weariness. 



THOUGHT ASTRAY. 27 

Then by the narrowings of thy fate impelled 
Thou dost retreat back from the dreaded world 
One more remove. Less frequent now thy foot 
Treadeth the open highway — it doth seek 
Some solitary walk — the approaching form 
Doth startle thee. The child's gaze fetters hath, 
The ball and chain of the poor criminal. 
The thoughtless salutation from the lips 
Of some chance passer reacheth to thy heart, 
Quickeneth its motion — maketh pale thy cheek ; 
And thou all out of tune, the faith which held 
Thy manly power up while it scaled the wall 
Now broken, lost, would fain forever hide, 
At least if no more, rescued from thy shame. 
What an eclipse to the bright lamp that burns 
Of intellect within! not that for thee 
It should shed lignt alone, but that its rays 
Uplifted should shine through a darkened world. 

Yet better far to dim thus and go out 
Unnoted, useless, if beneath neglect, 
Discouragement and loss, thou hidden hast 
The pearl of promise of a better life, 
Than lacking it, to attach unto thyself 
Each coveted and honoured quality 



28 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

That decks a man out for this world's esteem. 

For after all, as finished with itself 

What is this life ? Take from me ev'n the guess 

Of an hereafter. Let me contemplate 

The thing alone. I track it from the first, 

And note its windings careful to the end. 

Mark its ascending steps, the level plane 

Upon its summit, and its downward way; 

Then when I come to the extremest verge 

I gather up, upon the silent shore, 

Some name illustrious, place it in the scale, 

And in the opposite balance one unknown. 

Lo, they do weigh alike, nor this nor that 

Can bring the other down — a grain of dust 

Will give the victory to either one ! 

Yet though this were the sum and measurement 

Of life — if it did finish with this world; 

And though this is the most true measurement 

Of those distinctions which do perish here, 

Yet when we leave this fancied briefness out, 

And join this life with that which lies beyond, 

Another estimate doth fill our thoughts. 

We then are taught that though ambition's goad 

Doth urge us but to folly, a command 

Of true authority, and the world's need, — ■ 



THOUGHT ASTRAY. 29 

Its destitution in the highest good 
Doth move us to fling every fetter off 
And gird us, as no laggards in the race. 

But I have wandered far from that first thought 
Which led us to communion. What is love? 
There is no definition. Love doth fill, 
The scriptures tell us, all the breasts in heaven ; 
And more, that G-od himself is Love. But what 
Is this high quality ? And who can tell 
How by despotic government it rules, 
Gentle and just, but with resistless sway, 
When it hath made its throne within the breast ? 
We may speak of its influence benign, 
Its power and its effects, but to draw forth 
The monarch's form and visible lineaments, 
The sceptre and the dazzling royal robe, 
Is not for mortal pencil. 



THE NECESSITY OF FAITH. 

"We are hemmed in by possibilities 

Of so great evil, that without a trust 

In One whose sway doth overreach them all, 

Our minds would be companioned but with fears. 

My body, hale to-day, may soon become 

The lodgement of some most abhorred disease. 

My intellect, now in its many parts, 

Laid like the atoms of transparent glass 

Each in its place, but one in harmony, 

May by some shock be so disquieted 

That order and all just proportion gone, 

Darkness shall fill the room and place of light. 

There is not one possession of my joy 

But as it is the more beloved as such, 

May so be changed into a heavier wo ! 

The currents that bring joy and sorrow down 

Are viewless, unknown, and beyond our reach. 



THE NECESSITY OF FAITH. 31 

How could we live and bear the consciousness 
That it is thus, midst quiet smiling peace, 
If we held not this firm persuasion safe, 
That not by chance these currents ebb and flow, 
But as poured forth or held back by the hand 
Of One whose wisdom compasseth our fate — 
Who better knows our need. From day to day, 
Save but for this, shut in the dark I go, 
With treasures both to forfeit and to gain, 
Yet never fearful save when letting slip 
This sweet belief, I trust in mine own strength. 
Then am I tost and sore disquieted, 
Seeing how great my hazard, and how weak 
I am to combat, o'er-rule or defend ! 



PRAISE. 

As every thing in nature, from the star 

That sparkles in the zenith, to the worm 

That on the earth I tread between my feet, 

Telleth of a Creator; and as more 

We do unfold its parts, it telleth more 

Of that Creator's wisdom, goodness, power, 

So I could wish that every thought drawn forth, 

And image from the store-house of my mind, 

Might speak thanksgiving ! and as from the depths, 

Deeper within that treasury it was born, 

So it might higher rise in rendering praise. 

Praise is the one great utterance ! the song 

Of all things round me ! Nature in her haunts, 

And man as I behold him, for the sum 

Of all his acts and checkered history 

Is the fulfilling of a supreme will. 

Not that God moves to sin, but man intent 



PRAISE. 33 

Upon his purpose, wealth or pleasure here, 

Chooseth his way, but Grod appoints the end. 

God's enemies do praise him, for their zeal 

In guilt he turneth to his own account, 

Making them strive unconsciously for good. 

The wicked have been scourges in his hand 

To scourge their fellows ; or their stripes laid on 

Have humbled saints whom pride held back from heaven. 

The righteous praise Him, even when they fall, 

And miss the path, in that true penitence 

Which weeping doth retrace each erring step. 



MY DESK. 

This pierced box upon my writing desk 

Is filled with grains of sand. They to the sea 

Were once a barrier. For years gone by, 

For centuries and trains of ages passed 

They did receive the billows as the y rolled 

And thinly spread far up along the beach. 

The fisher's foot hath pressed them, or the form 

Uncovered, delicate, cast from the wreck, — 

The hand of beauty in her lonely walk 

Upon the summer's evening, there hath writ, 

With outstretched finder the desired name. 

It hath beheld, this little heap of sand, 

The midnight tempest charging o'er the deep, 

Or glistened as it gently rolled away 

With morn or evening sun. Now it hath come 

Thus prisoned to me for a baser use. 

Here is my pen too — a small scale of gold 



MY DESK. 35 

First hid in the dark bosom of the earth 

Is given shape in it. I cannot tell 

From whence 'twas brought, or by whom it was found. 

Some arm hath toiled for it — some eager hand 

Has gladly stretched to clutch it. Then it passed 

Into how many forms before it reached 

This one in me ! And yet how many more 

"Will it yet wear when it is lost to me ! 

Gold keeps good company, its servants say. 

It lodgeth with the rich, lineth their purse, 

Or sits enthroned above some lovely brow, 

Clasping a jewel there — but with the poor 

It stays not ! 

My porcelain inkstand, where were dug those earths 
Which amid flames were to each other joined, 
Made one fair mass in it ? What foreign hand 
Did with such art create these mingled flowers ? 
Who studied out its shape to please the eye, 
And gave the whole thing beauty ? Can I fix 
A date, or habitation, or a name 
For one of these ? I cannot. All I know 
Is what my eye now tells me as I turn 
And see it here. This is the smallest part 
Of the withheld recital ! 



36 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Next I see 
This small mock weapon close by my right hand, 
Its blade of fine grained polished ivory — 
Its handle silver-studded bears a hoof 
Yet perfect in its form— -the light brown hide 
Still as in life about it. Could I tell 
Of the far wastes where roamed the elephant, 
Or paint the yet green fields where leaped the deer 
That did unite to furnish me this toy, 
I might, perchance, not heedless lay it down 
As I do now each hour. That very thing 
Which seems most worthless, and which we least prize, 
If it had utterance to tell us all 
That hath passed near it, might the dullest ear 
Detain in wrapt attention day by day, 
Until its tale were told. This polished oak 
Of which my desk is framed, had it such voice, 
Thus might it speak: " A century ago, 
The tree from out whose bark-embraced side 
I came, was but a small and tender shoot. 
The spot whereon it grew, was near the top 
Of a high wooded hill. From year to year 
Left to the nurturing of the winter's storm 
And summer's gentler care, — I upward sprang 



MY DESK. 37 

"From the green level of the grassy earth, 
Until I pierced the forest's roof above. 

Ye men stand under us, 
And looking up behold our branches spread 
One o'er another, deepening for your shade. 
But ye see not the even boundless plain 
That like a rippling sea, far from its coast, 
Lies at the forest's top ! Above it soar 
The eagle — all the plumed inhabitants 
Of th' untrod woods. The armed and mounted blast 
There sporteth at his will, — the driven clouds, 
Or those that sleep like the leviathan 
Unmoved in the still deep, look down on us, 
Or stooping kiss our topmost trembling leaves. 
Beneath upon my trunk, grew tufts of moss- 
Unnumbered creatures clung to me, and found 
Somewhere upon my surface, spread abroad, 
A home. The lizard, mottled like my bark, 
Lay close and still as neared the Indian's tread, — 
He his own blind to vision. Up my side 
Coursed the untired ant; and when the months 
Of summer and sad autumn were all gone, 
And I had seen that ocean of green leaves 
Put countless colours on, and fade and fall, — 
"Then fell the snow through all the winter's day, 



38 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

And at the eve still fell. Then the great owl 
Stood up in his high place, and shook his wings, 
Scattering a downy shower from all the branch. 
He hooted through the woods till the wild night 
Seemed wailing in his voice. At spring again, 
Close to my root, the early flowers came forth 
Untended by man's hand, while the vast bulk, 
Compassed by all my arms and boughs outspread, 
Was decked with new-come buds. I heard the song- 
The first cry of the birds returned to me, 
And knew from where ? mid endless spring they came. 
Thus taught I have been of the secret ways 
Of nature ; and could speak more of the lives, 
And hid conversings of her multitudes 
Than men in most learned books!" 



A SPRING IN THE WOODS. 

Not far I walked, when from the road 

A path wound as to some abode, — 

I turned on it, and following 

Came to a hidden crystal spring. 

As close beside its grassy brink 

I prostrate kneeling bent to drink, 

y Neath its smooth surface, imaged there, 

I saw tall boughs as in the air, 

While through their openings farther down 

Spots of the deep blue heaven shone. 

Then when I broke the falling light, 

Lifting my hand to shade my sight, 

These pictures from the surface fled 

And but a little way below 

The white sand boiling, gleamed instead, 

Pure, spotless, like a bed of snow ! 



40 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

I noted to the cool wet side 

"Welled up the placid silent tide, 

Then overflowed and stole away 

Where thicker foliage dimmed the day — 

The rivulet not heard nor seen, 

But marked by growth of deeper green, 

With here and there amid the gloom 

A wild rose in its desert bloom. 

How long it was I cannot tell, 
Ere I now in deep slumber fell; 
When to my closed eyes came a sight 
Hidden from them when ope'd to light. 
Methought the trees about me drew 
Apart, and the long vista through, 
I looked on the descending sun, 
As oft before then I had done, — 
Only the clouds and sea of gold 
Seemed like a gateway to unfold, 
Mighty and glorious to behold ! 
Within those gates undimmed and clear, 
'Mid heaven's unclouded atmosphere, 
I saw afar a shining band 
Look out toward our desert land, 
I saw them on the threshold stand ! 
Soon upward borne as they had been, 



A SPRING IN THE WOODS. 41 

Glad heralds from this world of sin, 

Three angels to them, entered in. 

Then quick that bright host gathered round, 

I heard unnumbered voices sound, 

"The dead hath life! the lost is found!" 

At this I saw the heavens no more, 

The earth closed 'round me as before ; 

Then as I lay there wondering, 

Methought beside that hidden spring, 

Even with me in that lonely wood, 

One of these same bright beings stood. 

" Know'st thou what thou hast seen?" said he. 

"Dimly," I answered, "doth dust see? 

Ev'n though I know, yet tell thou me." 

"Whene'er," he said, "on swift glad wing 

Angels to heaven tidings bring, 

That but one soul hath turned to God, 

Joy filleth all his vast abode." 



THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 

Disciple. I would speak reverently to one of thy form, 
Enrobed as thou art — who hast never known, 
Through all the history of thy rational part, 
One thought of sin. Thy dwelling too, hath been ' 
Ever before His presence whom to name 
With lips so foul as mine, to such as thou, 
I dare not. 

Angel, — Fear not to speak with me for I am made 
By the same hand as thou; diviner power 
Was not in my creation than in thine. 
Brethren, one common Father's sons are we. 

Dis. — Why, oh descended spirit speak' st thou thus? 
Lo, what a space divides us, not so great 
In distance that we sum by measurement, 
That have thy radiant wings now traversed o'er, 
But in respect of purity, what flight 
Can bring thee near? 



THE angel's visit. 43 

Ang. — Christian, would' st thou now drive me from thy 
presence ? 
Let me remain — I would commune with thee. 

Dis. — I am a worm, clothed but in clods of clay, 
A cumberer of the earth's fair face I am; 
Yet from my degradation do look up ! 

Ang. — Thou art a Prince and wear'st a royal robe, — 
A golden chain is round thy neck. Behold, 
Thou shalt sit higher than I ! 

Dis. — Depart from me ! I am a sinful man. 

Ang. — "Where sin abounded grace did more abound. 
We who did never fall — our lower place — 
Blissful, yet as the creatures of his hand, 
Have never lost. Thou thine original place 
Hast fallen from to be exalted more. 
Thou wast a creature then as I am now, 
In thine appointed order. Thou art now 
One with Him who created me — an heir 
To his high throne I 

Dis. — I did look for deliverance from hell, 
And had some premonition dim, unformed, 
Of the new life to come. But thou dost shape 
What had no definite form. From angel lips, 
To hear these things foretold doth move the prayer 
For grace to bear them. 



44 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Ang. — Eor grace thy lips were wont to supplicate, 
Wherewith to bear thy sorrows; dost thou now 
Need it because of joy? 

Dis. — With such a flood it comes, the narrow space 
Within my heart for heavenly delights, 
I feel cannot contain it. 

Ang. — It shall ebb, 
And tears shall flow again, — 

Dis.— 'Tis well. 

Ang. — The mystery entangled in thy life 
Shall be unravelled. It is plain to Him 
Who holds its thread, it shall be plain to thee. 
Thou measurest thy sojourn here by years, 
Those years by months and days down to the space 
Of moments; and thy progress step by step. 
Thou shalt see in another light when all 
These moments that do measure out thy life, 
Seeming unnumbered, shall be proved but one. 
One moment all these years, one step this life, 
From nothing to a throne in endless bliss ! 

Dis. — How dost thou sum my joys and sorrows up 
Into so small an unit ? 

Ang. — In the far counsels of eternity 
Thy name was named, — "My love doth choose this soul 
To sit in glory where I shall ordain." 



THE angel's visit. 45 

This is thy generation — travailing now 
In birth thou art! 

Dis. — Oh that I might depart with thee ! I faint 
Upon this journey. Brief in truth it is, 
But my endurance measured not with it, 
At times seems briefer still. My hope leaps up 
Beyond the level of mortality 
And I long to be gone ! 

Ang. — 'Twere sin, the harboured thought of discontent, 
And not as such I name it, for to change 
The place ordained ev'n for one higher up, 
Were but to lose the smile that seeks me out 
In mine own rank and fixed seat in heaven. 
I would not change with seraphs — thus doth joy 
Make us all loyal there ! And yet oh man, 
Christian, thou son of God, I say to thee 
That leaving out their bent already formed — 
But the two ends brought in comparison — 
Angels might well thy mortal burden take, 
Yielding thee freely up their own estate 
So that at last they might thy right obtain 
Through endless years to sing redeeming love ! 

Dis. — Why is it I who am inheritor 
Of so great wealth, keep myself now so poor ? 
A little burden bends my shoulders down 



46 POEMS. — BY GOLD PEN. 

And I go sighing like a criminal 

Led forth to execution. Day by day 

The moving dungeon of my own sad thoughts 

Shutteth out joy. I am in prison here — 

And mine own jailer — yet between the bars 

Ever can see afar the promised land. 

Aug. — Thou should'st behold it near, with open face. 
It is thy want of faith. If thou wilt live 
By sight alone thou still shalt go in chains. 

Yet freedom is thy privilege; cast off 

These voluntary fetters from thj soul, 

Thou art enfranchised — bondage is thy choice/ 

Not thy necessity, for thou art bought — 

The ransom paid for thee. Th' enslaver hath 

No right, and thou art serving o'er thy time. 

JDis. — Canst thou oh Spirit, who art wont to look 

Upon the fields of heaven, stoop so low 

As to regard the sorrows that do fill 

The narrow compass of a human heart? 

Aug. — Name them each one. Is that too low for me, 

Which He who sitteth on the highest throne, 

Doth day by day ? 

Dis. — At first I walked in ignorance among 

This world's delights. Hither and thither led, 

For years I wandered towards no certain mark. 



THE angel's visit. 47 

The natural light of intellect shut out, 

That guiding star which should have led my course ; 

But when night fell on me ; that brighter light 

Shone forth and I was changed. I followed then 

The heavenly influence, rather by its force' 

I was impelled. Those things I sought before, 

And gladly bore nor felt a feather's weight, 

Now crushed me — an insufferable load. 

Thus was it till a hand outstretched from heaven 

Threw off the burden and the balm of peace 

Laid on my breast, that knew not such before. 

I thought now my deliverance was full, 

That I had but a level path to walk, 

And it not long, while freed from every weight, 

I would go singing to my journey's end. 

But that path hath stretched far — I am grown weak, — 

Those weights again oppress. — 

Ang. — Name them to me. 

Dis. — Thou knowest not within thy spotless thought, 
Sin's nature, and no comprehension hast 
To take in its expression. Canst thou feel, 
Or feeling not conceive, the thirst and pang 
Of covetousness withering up thy soul? 
What want hast thou, but that it is supplied ? 

Ang. — Not by that closer sympathy which springs 



48 POEMS— BY GOLD PEN. 

From like endurance can I know thy pangs, 

But sin" in its own quality— the gall 

That bitters the great fountain and the streams, 

Tasting alike in every kindred drop, 

I may conceive by letting but the thought 

Come up to me, of God's averted face. 

Dis. — Shall I teach thee in what but to forget 
And be like thee, I covet while I speak ? 
Methinks if I stood cleansed from this taint, 
As thou dost, oh angelic visitor, 
I would count him mine enemy who sought 
If not t' engraft it, yet to mar my sight 
With its abhorred resemblance. 

Ang. — Mine enemy ! Thou who art putting off, 
In thy approach that hastens day by day, 
Thy clay, that thou may'st wear a robe of light ! 
Who is my friend then if thou art my foe ? 
Christian, these sorrows, this remaining taint, 
That clings to thee, fill not much in my sight. 
I see thee at the end- — the interval 
That lies between thee and salvation passed. 
For thou art washed and made already pure 
Before His sight who counts redeeming blood, 
For what it shall do. He who plants a seed 
Within the bosom of the fruitful earth, 



THE angel's visit. 49 

And watching sees its tender blade spring forth, 
Bearing its blossoms, saith his fruit is won. 
Yet he may err — the dark and silent night 
May cover up the treacherous, nipping frost, 
Or whirlwinds may blast his unfinished hope. 
But in the vineyard where thou growest, thou, 
Oh heir of immortality ! no blight 
Can touch the feeblest shoot. All planted there 
Shall come unto perfection ! 

Dis. — And as I watched beside the bed of one 
Who in the flesh was dear to me, there came 
Over his changed. countenance a hue 
That took me 'midst the little mounds of green 
That fill the church-yard — then I knew the time 
Was near at hand when there would be his bed. 
I moved my place and hidden from his sight, 
Covered my face and prayed for him — oh angel, 
Curse me not now, I pray thee ! As I sat 
Even by my dying friend, there came a thought 
Rising amid my prayers, how he had left 
Me great possessions; and about that bed, 
And through my soul, bat-like it flitted ! 

Ang. — Tell me on. 

Dis. — One heart there was, which though of mortal 
nature, 



50 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

And therefore partner of our common guilt, 
Yet by the soft'ning influence of grace 
On gentler traits which sometimes nature gives, 
Was grown and transformed to so fair a shape, 
'Twas easily beloved. Of all on earth 
'Twas bound to me by the most tender tie, 
And in that close relation, which demands 
The service even of the wandering glance, 
Till I shall be a covering to the eyes, 
Was faithful. Tea I looked upon the sight, 
Though in my bosom, as a most strange thing. 
Yet angel, oh, even while it nestled there, 
Confident in its innocence, my eye 
Trait'rous to love, in guilt looked on another. 

Ang. — Yet tell me on ! 

Dis. — That child which God hath given me — the first 
To open in my heart the long-closed doors 
Of filial affection — he is clothed 
About his infant limbs and all his form, 
With power to draw forth love unto himself, 
And wears it as a vesture knowing not. 
He by the sin inherited from me, 
By me laid as a burden on his soul 
Deep planted, wrapt up in its hidden folds, 
Did err and err again, till in me roused 



THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 51 

Was that fierce humour which doth blind the eye, 
O'ercome the spirit, lift the vengeful arm — 
And I was conscious — I from whom he sprang — 
Of hatred. 

Aug. — While thou dost tremble 'neath these pressing 
weights 
That crush thee down to earth, I see the hand 
That marks their limit on the other side. 
Yet will I ask thee now as tho' the proof 
Unseen by thee, were hid too from my eye, 
Do these things thou recountest answer to 
Thy longings ? Dost thou look on them with love ? 

Bis. — Canst thou, clothed as thou art, look down so far 
And mock me? As the weary man that lies 
Beside the path across the wilderness, 
To rest and sleep when silent eve comes on, 
And wakes to feel a serpent's tight'ning form 
Wound round him, while its fangs pierce to his heart, 
As he doth love the thing that hugs him in, 
And stings him unto death, so love I these ! 

Aug. — This is the argument I now hold up 
For thee, against thyself. Who made thee thus 
To hate what most by nature thou would' st love? 
Can he who fain would have thee feed on sin, 
Who would prepare and dress it to thy taste, 



52 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN, 

That thou might' st eat and die? 
No, wert thou his, no pure and healing draught 
Would be more sweet to thy perverted taste 
Than that now most abhorred. For tho' deceived 
By these foul outward shapes in which 'twas dressed, 
Sin in its nature were most lovely still. 
Learn then to see aright thy sojourn here — 
Be filled with sorrow when this hostile world 
Shall turn to thee in love. Feel thou affright 
When these temptations thee oppress no more. 
To be exempt is not the favoured lot, 
But with them to have grace. 

Dis. — What one corpse is to a strewed battle-field, 
What one grave opened to earth's millions hid, 
Is my small speech to the great silence left! 
I thought to bare my bosom, and at once 
To show its sufferings and its dread disease; 
But 'tis like turning traitor to myself! 
Thou angel, perfect in thy life of thought 
As in the beauty of thy visible form, 
May take this covering off — but as for me, 
I hold the secret of so steeped a soul, 
With all the intricate windings of its guilt, 
That I do loathe myself to look within, 



the angel's visit. 53 

Yet for myself have still left that regard 
Which would not have thee loathe me as myself. 

Ang. — Know'st thou not that two natures strive in thee ? 
The things thou would'st not, thou art made to do — 
While seeking good, evil is present with thee. 
Not to thy charge then, shall these things be laid. 
I am a minister sent forth to those 
Who shall be heirs of glory. Ere I left 
That radiant coast, oh Christian, in my flight 
Thy name was named so lovingly by Him 
Who bought thee with his blood, that all thy sins 
The weights and burdens fastened to thy soul 
By its great foe, do but my pity move. 
Know of myself I have no separate being, 
But as my throned Master is, am I, 
And he doth love thee ! 

Dist — Open, oh earth, to some great humble depth, 
That I therein may fallen prostrate lie 
While comes this crushing weight of mercy down ! 
For what am I, that thou should' st visit me? 

Aug. — When I do leave thee, it shall be to pass 
Swiftly unto those upper courts where dwell 
The multitudes of heaven. The redeemed 
Who journeyed on this earth where thou dost now — 
Brought safely to the end, I shall meet there. 



54 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Know that as I do minister to thee 

I did descend to them. Yea, through the course 

Of years unnumbered this hath been my task. 

And of them all, that countless multitude, 

Through those unnumbered years, there is not one 

Who left to wander, came not to that rest ! 

Deem it not strange then, if thou art to me 

As one of them. And for this I am sent 

For differing messages to different souls, 

Or to the same soul as its need may change, 

I bring; because beneath thy mortal load, 

From that high tower which watcheth all the called 

; Twas seen thou now dost bend — too much oppressed. 

I would not then make light of sin, but help 

Him whose ascending steps are too much clogged 

By its retarding weight, that he may freed, 

Forget the things behind and onward press 

To those before! 

Dis. — Tell me, before thou leavest me, some word 
Of that great height which draweth all my hopes — 
Of Heaven. 

Ang. — Be patient, 'tis not yet. And if I might 
Relate it or spread forth its fields to view, 
How should I mar by such light gone before 
The }oy of first possession ! Yet I this 



THE angel's visit. 55 

Will tell thee. As to mind and spirit most 
Pure high and glorious, yet without a shape, 
Beholden by the eye, thou dost refer 
Thine ever-reaching, far-off thought of God, 
So there his great perfections he sets forth 
In corresponding beauty, and the house 
Of his abode in all its furniture, 
Its scenes and angel orders round his throne, 
Makes visible, and doth embody forth 
Unto the eye, his love and attributes, 
Which lost to man's perception were before, 
And swallowed up in light ! 

Dost thou esteem 
This form in which my spirit hath been shaped } 
And these the robes which have been given it, 
As beautiful? 

Dis. — Had I not known by intimation sent 
Thine order in the kingdom, when at first 
I saw thee I had knelt, as even now 
My mortal part doth tempt my soul to do. 

Aug. — And yet, oh Christian, in my downward flight 
As I neared earth and touched its atmosphere, 
The brightness from my dress was taken off, 
Leaving it dimmed ! 



56 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Was it a dream? No ; it hath not the part 

Of the reality a brief dream hath, 

For it though sleep-deceived, we seem to see. 

But here no startling vision hath stood up 

Before my wondering eyes. 'Twas but the work 

Of my imagination, slowly wrought ! 

Yet not without some principle of truth 

Answering its chief est part, I trust it is. 

For though we camp here in a hostile world — 

War our vocation and our business strife, 

Yet if I have the deeper counsel reached 

Of Him who formed us, and doth hold us up, 

Stronger than we — beyond and out of us 

The pow'r is that doth guard our passage here, 

And bring us safe in triumph to the end. 

I know how willing Sin is to put on 

Whatever vesture pleases to deceive, 

And that she will, so we but let her come 

And bind our hands up, wear an angel's dress, 

Yea, and sing angel's songs. First let me lose 

The power of thought, ere I myself deceived 

Shall for her flatter souls to idleness. 

Yet is there a temptation I have known 

In the long daily warfare of this life, 

When not so much in foremost perilous fight 



THE angel's visit. 57. 

Our station hath been as to watch and wait, — - 
Then have I known come stealing o'er the soul, 
That looketh ever inward on its sin, 
Too much of longing for the freeing morn ! 
For such as know this, and have sat them down 
Not tempted here to linger, but repine, 
I draw this unreal picture, full of fault, 
And yet of warm endeavour, that they may 
Bethink themselves how light the burden is 
Now laid upon them — how brief as to time 
This season of their trial ] and how near 
Their victory draws which God himself hath won, 



A BAT. 

One summer's evening when around 
Our lamp a merry group was found, 
And up went many a joyous sound, 
While fell the rain, 

One quickly cried "a bat ! a bat !" 
I saw it dart this way and that ; 
None moved, but shouted as they sat, 
TilTt rang again ! 

I rising, gave it chase alone, 
Till when to every corner flown, 
It struck the wall, came slowly down, 
And silent laid. 

Cautious I now, with stealthy haste 
Drew near it — with my foot I pressed, 
Till it all power to harm had passed, 
And was quite dead. 



A BAT. 59 

Then stooping, yet not willing quite 
To hold th' offender to the light, 
Lo ; a wet sparrow met my sight 
With drooping head ! 

It caused a pang ! Partly, no doubt, 
From shame, part from the pain it brought, 
I from the window cast it out, 
And no word said. 

Here was no fault, no cruelty— 
The stars were farther not from me 
Than wish to harm or cause to die, 
So meek a thing. 



TThy happened it ? Hast thou not learned 
How thoughts are to each other* joined? 
Perhaps too rash, too quick I burned 
This thought to bring. 

That should I in some evil hour 
The heart crush, brought within my power, 
I may feel when the deed is o'er 
A keener pang. 



THE ANGLER. 

See how this angler patient watches o'er 

The line he holds ! Its armed, enticing bait 

Is hidden from his sight. So is the place— 

The wat'ry chambers and the wand'ring prey 

Whereto it hangs beneath. He can but note 

The painted float above, and draw it forth 

Not sure of a reward. So do I watch 

Above the peopled current of the mind, 

And with my pen whate'er it offers take 

And lay it*by, not hasty to reject 

Even seemless useless gifts, lest I may lose 

With them those of more worth. But when my store, 

My little basket for the time is full 

I cease to toil, and after interval 

Of changed pursuit back to its hoard return, 

What suits my lacking not, then cast away, 

What serves my need apply unto its use. 



THE PHILADELPHIA LIBRARY, 

Founded 1731, containing now 70,000 Vols. 

Demure and without pomp, but strong in mighi 
Here marshalled is a host all officered — 

Unarmed, yet ever ready for the fight — 
Silent, yet even by the deaf ear heard. 

Soldiers not fleshly, but that cope with thought, 
Their wounds are to the surgeon never told; 

Husbandmen who the seeds of truth have brought, 
That buried deep bring forth an hundred fold. 

They go forth noiselessly to conflict, each 
Some separate field, some single foe to find, 

They fight where the swift bullet cannot reach, 
Upon the battle ground of heart and mind. 

And here are thousands of them ! at their call, 
Though voiceless, youth and hoary age I see, 

Come to bear forth this host, who one and all 
Aim but for good or ill, at victory. 
5 



62 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Friend, were I to approach thee now and seek 
As but a stranger to press my discourse, 

Thou would' st esteem me rude, and strong or weak, 
My argument unsought would lack its force. 

Yet one as strange thou bearest with thee hence, 
As true to succour, or as bold for strife, 

One without form of flesh or utterance, 
But to thy rational part as full of life. 

Unto thy home thou hast' nest with it : there 
Wilt bring it to thy chamber, and when night 

Lifteth a little while man's load of care, 

Wilt trim for it perchance, thy lonely light ; 

Then, as the young disciple doth draw near, 
When Wisdom whispers of her hidden way, 

Thou patient waiting wilt bend down to hear, 
And search what in its treasure-house may lay. 

Sweet poison that enravishes the taste, 

Hangs like a fragrant spell upon the breath, 

But turns the budding heart into a waste 
Barren and noxious, a wide waste of death ! 

Or doth that treasure-house rare jewels hold, 
Hidden there by some pilgrim gone before ? 

Kobes undefined that may the soul unfold, 
Clothing it as a prince forevennore ? 



THE PHILADELPHIA LIBRARY. 63 

Oh. reader ; or thou man of sober thought,, 

Come forth with me. Look through a golden gate, 

The sun departs ! Yet not for this I brought 
Thee to behold his fading, regal state. 

But turn thy back toward him and gaze on hio-h 
The light from out heaven's spreading arch of blue 

Ebbs like a flood ! Now searching all the skv, 
One star burns faint— and there another too ! 

They come, they eonie, th' innumerable host. 
See how they thicken thro' the unveiled height ! 

Oh sea that knoweth not a boundary coast ! 
Oh ; space eternal stretching from my sight ! 

Know'st thou that disembodied soon, thy soul 

May pass from world to world, through that far space 

When He, whom all worlds worship as they roll, 
Shall call thee to behold Him, face to face ? 

Little we know the value of an hour — 

Whether we read, or speak, or muse or write 

Risen again, — clothed with condemning power, 
Moments shall stretch like armies on our skat! 

Up from the tomb their multitudes shall climb, 
And gather 'round us. The awaken'nino- eve 

Op'ning from death, shall look again on Time 

Unsepulchred, its deeds and thoughts brought nigh. 



64 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Methinks the years are finished, and once more 
Standing within this ancient house I see 

An angel reaper, crying " Give me store, 
Fruits for the garners of eternity." 

Swift gath'ring from these shelves, a part he brings 
As 'twere the few ears left in time of blight, 

"These must not burn," he saith — unfolds his wings, 
And heavenward lifted, parteth from my sight ! 

Kemaining still, I countless works behold 
Of Poets, Orators and most learned men, 

Who stood god-like upon fame's heights of old, 
Whom I looked up to, and did envy then. 

O'erthrown with these, now 'round me seem to fall 

Statues and monuments carved with their names- 
Busts crowned with parched and faded laurels — all 
Heaped up as men heap stubble for the flames. 

This is the solemn pause which follows death ; 
The earth of life and beauty that hath been, 

Lies like a corpse just ceased from the last breath- 
One passage more shall finish all the scene ! 

Where is the orator's rapt radiance now? 

The poet's bright creations who may see? 
Oh bind another chaplet round my brow — 

Give me a better immortality ! 



SABBATH AFTERNOON. 

One Sabbath afternoon in May, 
When church and Sunday-school 

Were out, and long and tapering lay 

The shadows up and down my way, 
And rose the evening cool, 
By her dear hand, my little one 
I led forth toward the setting sun. 

Not 'midst the open fields were we, 
Nor in the wild wood. On each side 

But rows of houses could we see, 

While by us passed unceasingly 
Crowds like the river's tide; 

But we were used to this, nor felt 
Pent up, as if we fetters wore, 
For as our fathers had before 

We in the city dwelt. 

So as we walked, her hand in mine 



66 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Close covered up, (how near ties start 
From out the soft touch, and entwine 

Far in, around the parent's heart!) 
She looking up asked o'er and o'er 
Whither I now was leading her ? 
I answered not, but passing on 
Still listened to her prattling tongue 
Till the high dwellings all passed by, 
A long, low wall stretched on the eye; 
Then by a narrow gate in view 
We to the space within passed through. 

At the first glance it seemed to spread 

A simple field of green around, 
But as beyond the steps were led 

Amid the solitude profound, 
The eye might note, small hillocks rose, 

Though covered all with freshest green, 
With now, at twilight's deep'ning close 

Shadows more darkened, laid between. 
Up through the midst a wide smooth way 
Amid this field of hillocks lay, 
On each side in straight order stood, 
Trees whose new dress was in the bud. 
"My darling," now I gently said, 
"Here one who loved you lieth dead, 



SABBATH AFTERNOON. 67 

Here your dear grandmother is laid." 
She answered not, but presently 

Stepping a little way apart 

Stooped to a flower. " See, father, see ! " 
She cried — what I had meant to be, 

An armed shaft reached not the heart ! 

Still passing on I came to where 
The path ceased — mingling with the green, 

Then helping her with reverent care 
O'er those who laid to rest had been, 

I found one mound amid all there. 
"This is her grave," I said: "beneath, 
She who once held you, sleeps in death. 

Under this hillock she is laid. 
She loved her Saviour-: — at his call 

Sha trembled not : was not afraid, 
But for him gladly left us all." 
I looked if outwardly confessed, 
The arrow yet had pierced her breast; 
But though some undefined sense 
Had hushed the sweet child's utterance, 
She scarce knew what it was, nor whence. 

Turning back now, I gained once more 
The gravelled path we trod before, 



98 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Still leading her close by my side, 

Then pausing 'midst the silent way 
I said, " She glad and happy died. 

Now if to you were sent to-day 
Sickness and suffering, so that I 

Would stoop down to your bed and say 
My darling one must die, 
What would you tell me ? Could you trust 
In Jesus, laid here in the dust?" 

Then with full tears about to start 
She answered tremblingly and low, 

Her voice choked by her swelling heart, 
" Father, I do not know I" 

Oh, not to me was given power 
The fallen nature to renew. 

I felt it then, and yearning more 
Over this soul I turned my view 

From the green graves around me there 

Toward heaven, all helpless but in prayer. 
I have not power. No, though above 

All gifts I crave it for this one 
My first born, heir of tenderest love, 

God doth reserve it as his own. 
I stood still and was taught again, 
The Lord — the Lord alone doth reign! 



SABBATH AFTERNOON. 69 

Yes, he doth reign, but have I not 
His promises? "The seed of those 

Who love him, never more forgot 
Delivered shall be from their foes ; " 

And can he unheard, cast away 

A whole life's prayer by night and day ? 
No, glorious truth that he doth reign; 

I step these faithless doublings o'er: 
He can renew this soul again, 

Than I, he loves my children more, 
And I believe, though they be led 

Through want and suffering thro' this waste, 
Whate'er the pathway they may tread 

That his they all shall be at last: 
Yea more, that now they are his, known 
Where such their names have written down ! 

And oh, my soul, so prone to sleep 
If this thy thirst be, this thy want, 

How watchful wilt thou be to keep 
Thy part in the blest covenant ! 

How to his presence wilt dwell near 

Who loves the seed of those who fear ! 
The right hand or the treasured eye, 

Though harmless else, if they would take 



70 POEMS— BY GOLD PEN. 

Aught from the power that lures on high 

Thou'lt cut off — pluck out for their sake, 
Then not for this world's heaped up store 

Chiefly thou'lt covet, but that grace 
May be their portion — grace before 

Riches or health, or honoured place. 
But oh, how diligent within, 

How earnest, filled with constant care, 
Thou wilt be evermore to win 

God's priceless gift for them by prayer, 
For all thy works short-coming are, 
Thy strong, prevailing power is there. 



PREMEDITATION, 

Premeditation stares the rising thought 

Or image out of countenance. I wait 

Before I write it down, to see it fair 

In all its full proportion, turn it o'er 

And o'er — and all its charms flee from my sight ! 

Or else the thread I gather not at first 

But follow back too far into the skein 

Grows tangled, and the whole is cast aside. 

Nor is it all that these themselves are lost — 

Baffled endeavour is defeat, which blunts 

And wastes the ardour of the next attack. 

We need as in our spiritual life, 

So in our mental labours, well to know 

And study out ourselves. Mind marks the man. 

The beast that daily bears for us his load 

We learn to humour as we note his strength, 



72 POEMS— BY GOLD PEN. 

Whether by quickened or by gentler gait 
With loosed or tightened rein he best shall find 
And soonest reach the journey's distant end. 
The ship that bears us has its favourite tack, 
Nor is there one upon the boundless sea 
But he who standeth at the helm can tell 
Whence come the winds that drive her swiftest on. 
So we ourselves may not at first discern 
Our surest path of progress, and long years 
May be consumed in seeming wasted toil, 
But having found it, and at last put off 
The weights that had before held back our steps 
We learn, but not till then, our sum of strength. 



THE LOFTY PLACE. 

He who fills a lofty place 

Though he climbed there to do good, 
If one spot his nobes deface 

Shows it to the world abroad. 

So the man who to some work 

Of kindness would devote his days, 

If 'mid his virtues one fault lurk 

May gain perchance more blame than praise, 

And some, it may be, who in heart 
Are true— and long with earnest will 

To act, take not the labourer's part 
Because they feel their frailties still. 

And truly, bitterness he reaps 

Who sowing zeal, the world calls it — 

For some sin o'er which he too weeps— 
The cloaking of the hypocrite ! 



74 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN." 

Yet is it just, thus to desert 

For our small loss the world's great cause ? 
Willing to toil but bear no hurt, 

Serve we our King for man's applause? 

No, nor doth censure me defraud, 
Though battling in my place I be, 

The good I do belongs to God, 
My faults alone belong to me. 

And why should I so keenly feel 
What foes may even falsely say — 

Am I not for sins deeper still 
Mine own accuser day by day? 

My Master but fulfils my word, 

I tell him for his sake alone, 
Not mine own gain, I wield the sword 

And praise him for my victories won ! 

'Tis well. In mine infirmity, 

Not in my strength shall swell my song. 

Mine own need shall my glory be, 
When weak I am, then am I strong ! 

Only, oh Lord, thou near me keep, 
Lest not her foes, but Truth, I bind, 

Nor let me from man's scoffing reap 
New pride, but lowliness of mind. 



THE LOFTY PLACE. 75 

Then shall thy "Word be far proclaimed, 
But I who speak, unhonoured passed — 

My crown not by ray merits gained, 
Yet worn, thine own free gift at last ! 



LITTLE ELLIE. 

"Where has little Ellie gone? 
By the garden gate below 
I saw her as the sun went down." 
"No mother, 'twas an hour ago, 
I climbed the mount with you to bring 
Water from the upper spring." 

"Where is Bruno? Since last night 
I erring punished him for theft 
The dog has hidden from my sight." 
"As the first grove above we left, 

I thought beneath the maple's shade, 
Watching our steps I saw him laid." 
"Go to the forest's edge, my dear, 

And call your sister. She has strayed 
To gather flowers. Sound loud and clear 
Her name — she loiters somewhere near." 



LITTLE ELLXE. 77 

So spake the mother, and turned then 
To her accustomed tasks again. 
Upon the spotless board were spread 
Fresh fruit and milk and new-made bread — 
Soon upturned plates were by them found. 
Three plates, then three seats grouped around: 
One rudely made, a child's high-chair. 
But had some eye been watching there, 
It would have marked as each she placed, 
Her restless look and step of haste. 



tt 



Down by the forest's edge I stood, 

And called my sister loud and plain, 
But, mother, from the dreary wood 

Echo alone came back again." 
11 Go rouse the neighbours ! haste my child, 

Nor stay by any cottage door, 
But tell them in the forest wild 

Ellie is lost!" Love's cheat was o'er, 
And like a mountain stream forth burst 
The fears her trembling heart had nursed. 

But as he on his errand sped 
She out of sight as swift was gone, 

Shut in her chamber. By her bed 
She all alone to prayer knelt down. 



78 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

They came from many a rugged hearth 
Ans'ring her call, nor tarried long — 
Brave men who knew each dangerous path, 

Their hearts true as their arms were strong. 
Nor they alone, the summons drew 
Full many a hardy mother too, 
For Bertha was a widow. Here 
Since when the earth's handmaiden, Spring, 
Did o'er her wintry bosom fling 
Mantle of waving grass and grain, 
Within th' enclosed grave-yard near 
Her husband slumbering had lain. 
Still here she dwelt, yet not alone, 
As dawn comes when the night is gone — 
Her children grew and cheered her sight, 
Late darkened, with reviving light. 
The bough by storms torn from its place 
Each tendril left fills larger space. 

Then rose a gray-haired man and said, 
"I longest through the forest wild 
Have roamed. Let my word be obeyed 

In seeking for the child. 
Thou, Leonard, toward the deep wind-gap, 
Thou, Donald, toward the water-fall 



LITTLE ELLIE. 79 

Direct your steps. I to the top 
Of Thor will hasten; and ye all 

Spread out between us, far and near 

As when we hunt the autumn deer. 

Then when each o'er his search has passed 

We'll meet at Dripping Rock at last." 

Full fifty voices answered back 
"So will we do." 

By many a track 

Through the dark forest torches gleamed — 

The lighted trunks vast pillars seemed. 

Each hardy hunter hastened on 

As though his own the loved, lost one, 

And Bertha led her boy alone. 
"Mother, I heard my sister say, 

In the dark woods where no one sees 

Were bushes filled with blackberries, 

And that when you were gone away, 

That she might bring them to you home, 

She would go there and gather some." 
"Why this before did you not speak? 

My child, my child, you did not well." 
"Surely my aching heart will break ! 

At first I did no notice take, 

And since I feared to tell." 



80 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

" Oh weep no more, her words forgot 
I might myself have answered not, 

So often prattled forth unmeant. 
Though found or lost— whatever her lot — 

Thou only left, art innocent." 

They see the circle stretching far 
Of blazing lights. None resting are, 
But through the double night they move 
A little army led by love. 
u Ah see the heavens, how calm, how bright, 
Each unchanged planet sheds its light. 
Think at this hour how oft I slept, 
And safe my lost one by me kept, 
Nor knew my blessings till bereft! " 

At intervals the call would sound 
From far off voices of her name, 

Filling the solitudes around, 
But back no wished-for answer came. 

"Hark was that not a human cry? 
Hush ! stop, and listen ! All is still, 

It sounds again, now brought more nigh. 
'Tis but some startled whip-poor-will." 
Onward they pressed till one faint streak 
Showed the new day about to break, 



LITTLE ELLIE. 81 

And as grew bright the purple dawn, 
All, filled yet with the midnight's gloom, 
Met at the rock appointed on. 

Then spoke the gray-haired man again, 
" Our zeal hath carried us too far. 

Such tender lamb on the smooth plain 
Could not have reached where we now are, 
Much less o'er ground so rude and bold, 
Escaped so lately from the fold ! 
Back then, we have the light of day 
Wherewith to search again our way. 
Swift shall we our night's steps retrace — 
Search ye each nook, each covered place — 
Soon shall we see the lost child's face !" 
Backward they turn with strength anew. 
How may one trusting soul endue 
Desponding hearts by words of faith ! 
Hope lives or dies oft by a breath. 

Now all the forest multitude 

Uprose, as rose the morning's sun — ■ 

Bird, insect, beast to seek its food — 
Their day of glad toil was begun ; 

But every joyous call or note 

From locust's wing or warbler's throat, 



82 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Th' accustomed chord not reaching now 
Of joy, touched that which deepens wo. 
Her way, bereaved, the mother traced, 
Wat' ring with tears the forest waste. 
"What is it though ten thousand more 
For love to me search every spot, 
If the dear one they search now for 
They find me not, they find me not ? 
Kindness methought I valued most, 
But 'midst such suffering it is lost!" 
Hark, mother, through the rising morn 
The shrill blast of a hunter's horn, 
The signal he should quick send back 
Who first should cross the wanderer's track. 
Another swells the loud note too, 
It rings afar the forest through ! 
Come Bertha, haste! "Oh heart be still/' 

This is the time we trembling wait 
When known not which, comes good or ill, 

But it is fixed, the doom of fate ! 
By the lone, lofty water-fall 
That seems with joyous shout to call, 
See where thy little one now sleeps 
Laid on the grass 'neath spreading trees, 



LITTLE ELLIE. 83 

Near her a cup of blackberries, 
While watch o'er both stern Bruno keeps ! 
She wakes not, but her gentle breath 
Tells of the beating heart beneath, 
And the rich hues upon her cheek 
Of health and full deliverance speak. 
The hunters panting, thither press 
From the surrounding wilderness; 
Their hopes yet captive held by fears, 
They gaze upon the upturned face, 
And turn to hide unwonted tears. 
"Awake, my love, your mother see!" 
Her eyes are opened toward the light — 
She smiles. " Beside this bush last night, 
Mother, an angel was with me. 
But if I did sleep by the trees, 
I filled your cup with blackberries ! " 
Take back thy child, thy tremblings o'er, 

And learn to trust in Him whose arm 
Doth shield the tender lambs. No more 

Repine or doubt: dismay nor harm 
Come not or go at thy command. 
He watcheth, and his guiding hand 
Leads her through perils ever near, 
When far thou art as when thou'rt here. 



84 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Yet limit not his sovereign ways. 
Though not returned Vat given to death 
Thy darling were, still would' st thou praise 
If from this darkened world beneath 
Thou could' st discern, how for her sake 
And thine, he called her. We may take 
Not yet the thick film from our eye, 
Nor rend the cloud that wraps this dust > 
But in our brief captivity 
What is not seen, we may intrust! 



THE POST. 

Come up from the soft earth, ye blades of grass, 

Ye opening buds that spring in millions come, 

Each one a new and wondrous miracle ! 

And thou, oh sun, that standest in th' heavens, 

Still in the midst! while through the eternal space 

We and unnumbered worlds for evermore 

Roll 'round thy light in voiceless company ! 

Ye worlds, ye sounding floods, ye murmuring rills, 

Ye precipices, caverns, solitudes, 

Yea, all ye voiced and unvoiced witnesses, 

Pleading in argument unto the soul — 

Come, help me magnify the one great name ! 

The poet said, What am I in this world 
Of busy men ? Men who are strong to act, 
Who bind each breath of favouring circumstance, 
Helped on and wafted to the wished for end ! 



86 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

While I ashamed and lonely steal aside 
Unnoted, unadapted, useless, weak, 
By some inscrutable, deep influence 
Still longing for the loneliest of all haunts, 
Living but when I am in solitude ! 

Tell me what hand invisible it is 

That through the far off depths of forests wild 

Scatters the seeds of fragrant, tinted flowers, 

So that they spring 'midst the untrodden shade 

As in a garden, though no eye doth see ? 

Who is it from the circling firmament 

Draweth the clouds at evening toward the west, 

And drapes and groups them round the setting sun ? 

If bare and unadorned use alone 

Hath merit in God's sight, then why are these? 

Lo, all his works are perfect, both for use 

And beauty! Doth the black unseemly ore 

Because of the strong particles it yields 

More speak and magnify the Maker's praise 

Than the frail rose that useless o'er it blooms ? 

Beware! his creatures all have use, and serve 

Somewhere within the scale and compass vast 

Of his designs, the purpose of their being. 

So thou, oh poet, may not idly pine 



THE POET. 87 

Amid these scenes of louder sounding toil, 
Nor from them, shrinking to some haunt aside, 
Waste, more than the day-labourer, thine hours. 
If God hath given thee a different mind 
'Tis but for other work ! 'Tis thine to bear 
The small bright lamp he places in thy hand, 
Through the dark paths of nature and the soul, 
That thou mayest on the parting threshold stand 
And speak to mankind — an interpreter ! 
Thy fellows may not leave their toil for this, 
Nor thou thy meditations for their gains. 

And thou, oh poet, though thy lot hath been 
To loiter thus far on the path of life 
"Without apurpose, while crowds passed thee by. 
Each earnest, burdened with some warm intent, 
Till it hath seemed there was no work for thee, 
An idler — one in number o'er the plan — 
Thou too shalt know the gladness that he feels, 
Who sees beneath his busy hand and brain 
Some task increase and toward perfection grow, 
While every gift and talent of the mind 
Stretcheth in action ! 

Can He whose foresight and creative power 
Mingle in giving life but to a worm, 



88 * POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

So that its place awaits it, and its use 

Ere, not alone to be, but to serve both 

That place and use, it cometh from his hand — 

Can He have made thee half-way, without aim ? 

Be patient. Learn to wait, yea willingly 

To be still as thou art. He measureth 

Man's work not by its visible results 

But by its fitting to his own high will. 

And if that will toward thee, is to await 

Even as thou art the grave — there lies thy task- 

And toil that thwarts it, is but idleness. 



AUTUMN. 

From the vale up the mountain's side 
Like a vast billow, now we see 

Autumn doth roll her golden tide 
O'er field and forest, flower and tree, 

In wailing gusts the winds grown chill, 

Mock at the weak bright shining sun, 
The cry comes forth from vale and hill 
" Summer is done, sweet summer's done!" 



EVENTIDE. 

This is the hour when far back in old time 

Isaac at eve, walked forth to meditate. 

Amid green fields he walked, with lowing herds 

Far scattered 'round him. Who can tell how oft 

At this same hour through all the ages since 

Lone wanderers amid like solitude 

Have mused with holy thought as he did then ? 

There is an influence uttered not, but strong, 

That nature doth shed forth to win men now, 

And they do yield to it, yet knowing not 

The softened fetters nor the leading hand, — 

I tread not the green fields, but on the brink 

Of the steep shore beside the river's flood 

I sit me down alone. The many winds 

That play by day and night o'er this expanse — 

All are departed — leaving the wide plain 

Smooth as a mirror. In the distant west 



EVENTIDE. 91 

The sun goes down \ his brightest rajs are gone, 

And clouds that did receive him passing through 

With gorgeous colours, faded once again 

Deepen in purple as he far descends. 

But scattered through the heaven outspread above 

Lone, loftier clouds still catch the crimson tints 

And cast their shadows in the tide below. 

Look at the scene. That purple wall again, 

Built 'gainst the west, inverted now we see. 

Those forests that the opposite shore do fringe 

Are doubled, each tree spreading dark beneath, 

While over all the glassy surface spread 

At intervals the red clouds in the sky 

Are pictured yet more soft deep — deep below. 

The heavens grow dark — between those crimson spots 

The ans'ring waters blacken, and the stars 

Just shown above, I see relighted there. 

Oh beautiful 1 Can I no farther reach ? 

Often thus far Fve come and looked upon 

The works spread 'round me, till they filled my soul 

And every capable sense it doth contain 

With the acknowledgment of nature's charms. 

But ever with them seems to come a bar, 

A barrier to some farther sought advance. 

They are most beautiful, yet they impart 



92 POEMS— BY GOLD PEN. 

No other speech to me, no larger being ! 

I pause upon the brink of the beyond, 

And am not satisfied ! My soul still thirsts 

For something more. As far as they extend 

; Tis well ; and fills me with a deep delight, 

Yet that which whets the spirit's appetite 

Not satisfies its hunger ! Ah, my soul, 

Be thou content to learn what this would teach. 

Nature is not thy God. It holdeth not 

The final good. Yet coming from God's hand 

Doth witness of him. It is not prepared 

To take the place which He alone can fill 

Upon the heart's yet vacant throne of love. 

Nor are the charms so thick about thee spread 

That whereon thou must feed ! Toil is thy lot, 

Labour thy portion. Rest nor pleasure here, 

From any visible nor from unseen things 

Can be thine occupation clothed in clay; 

But in the intervals between the toils 

And stern tasks of thine upward pilgrimage, 

Nature, with all the viewless, beauteous acts 

And works of the Creator, are to help 

As glimpses, — springs of water by the way, 

That lead toward the great river, tasting faint 

Of that pure Stream of Life ! When then, beguiled 



EVENTIDE. 93 

With these beginnings of that final draught. 

Thou treadest now no more the path of toil, 

But seekest here to linger and draw forth 

The soul's full cup of bliss, the stream so sweet 

For its true purpose, stagnates to thy taste ! 

Nature, however woo'd or looked upon, 

Will yield but that for which she hath been sent. 

I have then too much sought to fill my mouth 

With fruits plucked from her — in those shaded bowers 

Meant to refresh, I have made my abode, 

And so I find by wisdom's ordered rule 

Which may not bend for me, that her delights 

Rather than adding more unto their store 

Have lost of what was at the first their bulk. 



THE SECEET SIN. 

Can I in secret cherish now this sin, 

And hope to rea£ not, some time, punishment ? 

What though I it confess not to myself, 

And utter forth anew each morn a prayer 

Against the tempter, when as eve comes on 

I welcome him again with smiling look ? 

Is there uncertainty or blinding doubt 

Between me and my fault? Can I not tell 

Whether 'tis mine or laid on me unknown ? 

Ah yes, the turning of my ear away 

From the loud condemnation of my heart 

Drowns not that inward sense which needs no tongue 

To tell me I am guilty ! And if guilt 

I thus permit to spread with clinging root, 

I know with blood it must be plucked at length. 

The terms whereon we hold our inward peace 

Have not been changed, nor is the sleepless eye 



THE SECRET SIN. 95 

That marks each taker of the covenant, 
Dimmed that it cannot see. Th' avenging arm 
Still doth exist and hoard its dreaded strength 
When nothing hurts, and we, secure, sin on, 
As in the moment when descends its blow! 
What then is needed? That these wav'rings cease 
Between indulgence and infirm regret, 
That I let conscience cry into my ear, 
How but to taste of what we dare not drink, 
Partakes in the true nature of the deed 
Of the full crime, and shares its penalty. 
For look, my soul, how thou art hemmed within 
Cherished possessions! These are all a mark 
For the correcting shaft, or may become 
Keen instruments of torture. Are there not 
Some bound to thee by such close union 
They seem to be not separate in their being, 
But part of self, and self s most tender part ? 
Lo, but to touch them or to breathe upon, 
How dost thou tremble! Pleasures that have led 
Thee upon doubtful paths for many years, 
Holding thee chained by their returning spell, 
Do in a moment lose their prolonged power, 
Their fascination turned to loathed defects. — 
Thou hatest them— because linked with the thought 



96 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Of retribution now poured on the head 
Of one whose wounds bleed chiefly in thyself! 
Yet may such pay the forfeit of the love 
Thou hast for him who bids thee put away 
All known sin for his sake, can move thee not. 



SELF-LOVE. 

Conceit a thousand forms will take, 
Though we be humble — seeking right, 

Some bandage for the eyes she'll make, 
That blinds us in the very light. 

If all our thirst is to be known,— 
- The poor idolatry of fame, 
She points where loftiest names have flown, 
And whispers "Thy powers are the same!" 

But when she finds a straggler weak, 
From Life's path wand'ring o'er the plain 

Pretending him she came to seek 
She plieth swift God's name in vain. 

'There is," she says, "a work reserved 
For thee to do — the time is come, — 
Arise! thy weak arm hath been nerved — 
Not for thy gain, but God alone." 



98 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Oh knew we not there is a Power 
That hemmeth in our goings aside, 

Faithful in our most faithless hour: 

Following e'en when our steps backslide ; 

How could we ever hope to gain 
The goal that seems removed so far, 

Or 'scape the dangers of the plain, 
Where no assisting angels are? 



OUR APPOINTED PLACE. 

We may not sum with talent as a part 

Of it the favouring opportunity; 

And yet the want of this/ when still closed up 

Each door is by which talent may come forth, 

Doth paralyze it in its unseen cell! 

But roused by brief success, tho' it had seemed 

Already dead, yet doth the clod put on 

Such vigour as its life had not before. 

Thou needest then two gifts ere thou canst rise 

Above thine earthly tasks pre-eminent — 

The inward power, the outward happening. 

Tell not of those who have this triumph won 

By courage of their own. The obstacles 

And seeming bars, their preludes to success 

Were but th' appointed way laid out before. 

All meet them, and to our dim-seeing eye 

Unknown the goal which farther on they hide — 



100 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Such hinderings should not abate our strength. 
Yet after all, if it hath been ordained 
Thy lamp shall covered be through life's long night, 
Its ray shall find no crevice to the end! 

What then? Is thy lot hard? Are there not left 
Tasks lowlier for thee? Art thou and thine 
Left without food and raiment ? Sift the wish 
That impotent doth chafe from day to day 
Toward some high object. Savours it the most 
Of zeal for good, or thirstings for renown ? 
God needeth not thine aid. The minds of men 
Are his, and formed each in its separate mould, 
Adorned with gifts or laid to straitest measure 
According to his purpose. None can lose 
By thy restrainment then but thou thyself, 
And with thee 'tis but pen ting up a part 
Which soareth by ambition. For if not 
Ambition, springing from rebellious self, 
It would from God's own orclerings be held back 
And die by his opposing providence. 
Thy sighs then at this seeming idleness 
Do clothe with sorrow's garb what is not grief, 
But an unwillingness to lose what seems m 
Within thy reach of honour, wealth or fame. 



OUR APPOINTED PLACE. 101 

If He who knows the world's necessity, 
And thy strength to supply it, calls thee not, 
What need for this thy zeal to labour still ? 

Oh for that high attainment, willingness 
To be as nothing! not to mark the steep 
Up which we would be led, nor name the toils 
That drawing praise to us we would endure, 
But to feel glad, and humbly be content 
While others are led by us to the tan, 
And we — not tried — pine in the rear unknown! 
God's ways are not those of his children's choice, 
For nature tempts us still, though formed again — 
Oft he who shrinks and dreads th' admirer's gaze 
We see exalted, crowned against his will, 
While he who dowered walks — as born to rule, 
Some thread of chance holds back from destiny! 

If thou a Christian art, bound to thy lot 

Shall be some cross. It is the load all bear 

Whose footsteps tend toward heaven. When at length 

After long bafflings thou hast found out thine — 

Seek not to loose it more. Turn thou around 

And clasp it, for whatever shape it wear 

It is, in truth, thy friend. The ease it spoils, 



102 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Or the good gifts it seems to hold thee from, 
Are nothing to those blessings yet unknown, 
Which in th' mysterious orderings of thy fate 
Are knit with it, and it alone for thee! 



OUR CHANGING FRAMES. 

I had a glimpse of heaven. Not by the eye 

Of flesh, nor yet that rayless, inward sight/ 

Which looketh through no organ, but discerns 

By spiritual knowledge forms that are, — 

It was a state of feeling; a still calm 

Within, by which each passion, all subdued, 

Was as if chained forever! while my love 

For those whom I should love — not marred by doubt 

Of their affection, nor by unkind thought, 

Watered my heart as some pure gushing stream. 

-Then too, sin, in those forms which she puts on, 

Mostly to tempt me, (which none know but me,) 

Seemed, tho' I warred not with her, all withdrawn. 

I noted the great change — how silently 

It came, un wrought by effort of mine own; 

And said, "This is a gift — a glimpse of heaven I" 

Why cannot I abide thus ? oh my soul 



104 POEMS— BY GOLD PEN. 

Is this thy rest? Can glimpses satisfy — 

Glimpses far off, though never more obscured ? 

They might, and hold thee back from near approach. 

'Tis not reward then, but encouragement 

To press toward that reward! Not the great feast, 

But a faint foretaste of it, to thee sent 

To cheer thee, drooping, — for the Christian state 

Here, is not one of quietude but war, 

War that shall truce nor brief cessation know 

For him who must die fighting — whose release 

Shall not be brought by friendly hands at length, 

But sent upon the point of some keen shaft, 

That erreth not, aimed by the enemy, 



THE SCULPTOR. 

See* st thou, high up on yon unfinished wall, 
A small rough habitation ? There it hangs, 
Near to the summit. But one hostile stroke, 
\Tell dealt, would spread its ruins far beneath. 
That is the place, where hidden out of sight, 
The sculptor slowly shapes the rough-hewn block. 
That at some future day, his labours o'er, • 
He may take off th/ unsightly covering 
And show triumphant, his fair statue done. 
So toil I, shut apart and separate, 
While the great throng unnoted pass me by, 
Hoping that by His aid, for whom my task 
I may form with the instruments of thought, 
Some shape that shall anew embody Truth 
Clothed in fair dress, or words of flowery srarb 
That may at length draw loye into herself. 



• OUR LIFE. 

Unto the watchful mind which doth compare, 

And weigh its inward pleasures day by day • 

With those more perfect shaped by its desire, 

How doth this life, when in the balance laid, 

Seem wanting! There are elements enough 

Of pure sensation in the new-born heart; 

But there remain too, roots of bitterness. 

These contraries the heart itself contains, 

And, at the best, would muddied streams bring forth, 

But when beside its want, we count the world 

Wherein His placed, the hourly influences 

It lends to ruffle and disturb, we find 

How like a thing placed far beyond our grasp, 

Reached but by sight, is perfect happiness! 

The torrent bursting from the mountain's side, 

Foaming 'midst rocks until it reach the base, 

If poured at first on some smooth marbled way 



ON LIFE. 107 

Would flow with scarce a ripple. But its course 

Thus rugged and uneven, was marked out 

By Him who called it from its secret spring. 

Take from us the deep consciousness we feel 

Of a capacity for purer joys. 

And we will want them not, insensible! 

But leave this consciousness, and from our lot 

Eemove the opposing trials of this life, 

How can we crave to ever see fulfilled 

Its now continual prophecy of heaven! 



"PUTTING OFF, 

Striving in coward listlessness 

Each effort still to shun, — 
How can the aid we pray for ; bless 

Our labours ne'er begun? 

Go boldly up,— -each hind'rance nieet, 

Assail that nearest by. 
To win a part, to bear defeat 

Is better than to fly ! 

How know'st thou but some gem most rare 

Hid in this moment lies? 
Time is a mine. Nor here nor there — 

Sure are we of the prize. 

He who the search unwearied keeps 

With zealous, constant mind, 
May gain perchance, but he who sleeps 

Surely no wealth shall find. 



"putting, off." 109 

The hour will not fold its wings, 

Onward thy steps are pressed — 
Slothful and diligent it brings 

Where both alike must rest. 

If it be sweet when day is past. 

Though not increased thy store, 
To think not to th' endeavour lost 

Its fruitless moments were, 

How, sweeter far, will be at length 

As wanes life's setting sun, 
The thought, not wasted was its strength, 

Though nothing more be won. 



8 



THE DINING-ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 

The cheerful group that gathered 'round me 

One by one to rest has gone, 
And this later hour hath found me 

Sitting by the fire alone. 
The vacant chairs about me stand 
As they were left, on either hand, — 
I will now draw mine own up nigher, 

And looking in the bright grate see 
If in this winter-midnight's fire 

One may not find some company. 
In feeble, harmless mockery 
Of the rude storm that blows without, 
1 Look how a viewless breath of air 
Traverses the red plane about, 

Swaying each flame now here, now there ! 
As one in some lone room aside, 

Sees pictured by the camera, 



THE DINING ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. Ill 

Within a spot a city wide. 

With thousands thronging by the way, 
So musing by this fire alone, 

All o'er its narrow breadth to-ni^lrt 
A pencilled hand doth seem to come, 

Painting the world in mimic light. 

A handful of red coals! the earth 

In the deep caverns of her breast 
Did cover up their unknown birth — 

Hidden as in eternal rest. 
High o'er them wild flowers blossoming 
Led on sweet summer. None to sow 
Nor reap were there. As waters flow, 
Came autumn's frost and winter's snow; 
And swift again returned the spring, — 
Even races changed, until at last 
Each age, each fleeting moment passed 
That should th' appointed period bring, 
Men ope'd the mine, and from long night 
Brought forth this handful to the light, 
Not dreaming of that sure decree, 
By which at first 'twas formed for me. 
To fall to ashes in my sight. 
What an unwritten history, 



112 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Or unknown future yet to gain, 
Doth to each casual thing pertain ! 
Thou feelest pride. The gem is thine, 
That doth from o'er thy bosom shine. 
But what is thy possession? Know 
That as it beauteous now appears 

From breast to breast, from brow to brow, 
It hath passed for a thousand years, 

And so will pass — thou, not it lost, 
Thou'rt but one of a mouldering host 
That o'er its glittering path hath crossed! 

Or come forth with me to the field — 

The slender stem beside thy feet 
Shall from its bark small fibres yield, 

Which maiden hands shall bind and' beat, 
Combing each thin thread separate, 
Till spun and wove, and bleached pure white 
' Twill show fair linen in men's sight. 
Then who can give it place or date ? 
Above some bold, stout heart 'twill rest, 
Or covering the more sensitive breast, 
Will feel the oft hid throbs beneath. 
Or worthless rags become at last, 
Upon the trodden highway cast, 



THE DINING ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 113 

From out the gath'rer's loathsome store, 
'Tis brought to change its shape once more. 
Mingled with water pure and clean, 

Torn to minutest particles, 
Forth flows th' affluent pulpy stream, 

Beneath th' rejected liquid falls 
Above, along the wirey plain 
White spotless paper doth remain ! 
This will be written on. Some eye 
That now would noteless pass it by, 
(Though first must intervene long years,) 
Will brighter grow or dim with tears, 
When searching what this plant shall bear, 
It reads the few words written there. 
Perhaps within some volume bound 
Impressed with words indelible, 

; Twill wisdom's hidden ways expound, 
Yielding him truth who loves it well. — 

What will it teach, or where be found 
This lowly thing ? Who, who can tell ? 

But other thoughts this place doth bring, 
This was my father's roof ! From here 

The path from summer back to spring, 
Doth at a glance now reappear. 



114 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Where, while I passed unconscious on, 

As living things take root and start, 
Sprang those deep feelings one by one, 

And powers that fill man's mind and heart. 
These too slow forming, buried deep 
As treasures of the mine do sleep, 
And as this handful in my sight, 
Was formed to cheer this hour to-night, 
So, for some good work in my day, 
Each better trait within doth lay, 
. Till by God's help that work is done, 
And I back unto dust have gone. 
Nor though he causeth none to sin, 

Was the Creator ignorant, 
That when I had a wanderer been 

From virtue's paths, where I was sent, 
My passions wasting at their will, 

Would quench affection, kindle strife, 
Mingling the good with how much ill, 

According to my checkered life. 
He knew it all. Through centuries, 
That gathered were as autumn leaves, 
He ne'er fore-ordered, kindly care, • 
Nor act of love or friendship fair, 
But one to do the deed was there. 



THE DINING ROOM OE THE OLD HOUSE. 115 

So too each evil act foreseen, 
Had long before so thwarted been, 
That e'en with virtue it took part, 
And worked good for the new-born heart. 

How different then his view from ours, 

We dimly scan a few dark hours — * 

But before him, as one page lie, 

The past and all futurity ! 

We wait th' event that shall befall, 

He doth each in its order call, 

And e'er the first had summed up all! 

To us what hath been, is forgot, 

What shall be, yet unknown, is not. 

To him all equidistant, clear, 

The age long gone, the moment here — 

By doubts, nor fears, nor hopes, ere tost 

Naught new nor old is, found nor lost. 

While musing thus secure and warm, 
As in some fortress shut from harm, 
Still howls the wintry wind without, 
Still tosseth each blue flame about, 
While from far wastes or ocean's shore, 
The storm beats to my very door. 



116 POEMS. — BY GOLD PEN. 

What thin partition His divides 
From icy cold and swelling tides ! 
What different scenes each other pass, 
Parted but by a pane of glass I 

But rising now from my warm seat, 

(Not in the body ; but in thought,) 
I go forth from this calm retreat. 

Ah, by one step what distance brought I 
Here it is bleak, no warmth, no light — 
All earth and heaven wrapt in night, 
While viewless, but with loud wild cry 
The armies of the air rush by. 
I journey on, for though storms blow 
O'er rising floods, through fire or snow 
Thought on its path unharmed may go, — 
Till where a river spreadeth wide, 
And lofty shores rise by its side, 
I open a small wicket gate. 
'Tis midnight, dark and desolate. 
Against the black skies dimly seen 
Rock a few boughs of evergreen. 
Along the narrow path I tread, 

(Oft have I trodden it before,) 
Till 'neath a latticed archway led, 



THE DINING BOOM OP THE OLD HOUSE. 117 

I ope th' inhospitable door, 
Then like some spirit through the gloom, 

For living thing nor light is there, — 
Above, below, from room to room, 

O'er vacant hall and quiet stair 
I pass 'midst unused furniture. 

This is the place where when glad Spring 
Doth from the deep earth blossoms bring,— 
I come, with those I love, to dwell. 
Winter, her brother, robed in snow, 
Not as some say, her envious foe, 
She meeteth here, and bids farewell, 
While round the stream her warblers sing, 
And this white cottage by its side. 
Lo, what a change ! Then, open wide 
Doors, windows, tempt the gentle air 
Now stripping mighty forests bare, — 
The winds as for its ruin sent 
Do shake this trembling tenement. 

Standing all lonely in the dark, 
I hear a rustling near me, hark ! 
And over by the opposite wall 
Something is moving white and tall, 



118 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

What is it? Ah, now I can see 

'Tis but the window's drapery! 

Though sash and shutter both are fast, 

Through some small crevice creeps the blast, 

A little rill from storms that blow, 

Tossing the curtains to and fro. 

Ha! what strange doings sounds and sights, 

Are here through the long winter nights ! 

I might be sad. The sombre thought 

To me by less is often brought, 

But I will rather think of when, 

'Neath calm and cloudless heavens serene, 
Sweet summer will be here again, 

Waving her leafy robes of green. 
Soon shall break forth that milder day, 
Soon 'neath the shade my child shall play, 
Watching the robin twine his nest ; 

Or, grouped all on the bank's steep brink, 
We'll stand in presence of the west, 

While down its steep the sun doth sink. 
For so the full and bounteous scope, 
Of the good promise gone before, 
That seed-time, harvest, autumn's store, 
Revolving shall fail never more, 
Giveth me liberty to hope! 



THE DIXING ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 119 

Only this one remembrance 

Driveth these glad thoughts blushing hence. 

It is that for long summers past 

Given me in this place of good, 
I at the Giver's feet have cast, 

But moments brief of gratitude. 
Not that the prospect far and fair, 

Which nature spreads before this place, 
Mingling her floods with earth and air, 

Till of a still morn I can trace — 
As 'twere let down to wet mine eyes, 
An image faint of paradise ; 
Not that this doth entrance my sight, 

For ever while I gaze I see 
Written in hues of deeper light, 

My own and their mortality ! 
Not that the love of beings here, 

Which filleth up, doth drown my heart; 
In the fond gaze of those most dear 

Still frames the sentence, "we must part." 
Nay, as for these things well I know 

All that earth to the spirit yields, 
Are but the seeds of flowers that grow 

To fullest bloom on heaven's fields; 



120 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

But 'tis, that sin or indolence 

Doth fetter still each new-born sense. 

Oh, when at times roused from their sleep ! 

Or broken from their captive's chain, 
My passions do new revels keep, 

Reigning as 'twere within again, 
When at such times a viewless hand, 

Leads me to some still spot aside, 
And lifts the veil, amazed I stand, 

That such dread tenants may abide, 
Still in a heart that loveth God, 
The place he chose for his abode. 
And could I mine own madness tame, 
Or with foul hands wash out the stain, 
If none now to my succour came ? 
Ah, I have seen. Let others boast 
Of deep gulfs in their own strength crossed, 
But as for me, since that first day 

When moved by grace, I turned toward heaven, 
Each briefest footstep of the way 

Was made in strength by Jesus given, 
Strength that whate'er its cost may be 
Was given costless unto me. 

The old clock in the hall strikes "one!" 
Its sound doth summon wandering thought 



THE DINING ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 121 

That far beyond the storm had gone. 
Back to the fireside I am brought — 
The fireside ! Ah, we may write 

Strange things of it — how greatest men, — 
Men who sway kingdoms by their might, 

When from the world returned again 
They sit thus musing here alone, 
Are conscious that their hearts are one, 
Even with the lowliest of their kind. 
Forced back upon the unflattering mind 
They learn once more how little things 
Oft touch the deepest, tenderest strings. 
The trifles of their childhood set 

In none of fame's thin drapery, 
Kising before them, homely yet, 

Move them as they move thee or me. 

Thou scarce can'st see by this dim light 

Yonder where mingled shadows fall, 
Near to the ceiling's dusky height, 

A nail driven part way in the wall. 
It is a spot where one bright ray 
Used every morn to herald day, 
Nay heralds yet the morn — come far 
By many an unknown world and star 



122 POEMS, — BY GOLD PEN. 

Ere there its glittering flight doth stay. 
In years long gone — I count them not, 
My sister hung beside that spot 
The cage that held her singing bird. 
Trilling all day, its dotes were heard 
Seeming thanksgivings for her care, 
Sending sweet music everywhere. 
Now, were she sitting by my side 

Still, when the recollection came, 
'Twere one that might a time abide. 

Much since hath changed, much is the same, 
The smile would mingle with the tear, 
But, oh, my friend, she is not here ! 
Is it not strange that at this hour, 

When all her past crowds to my breast, 
One lone remembrance comes with power 

Rising undimmed above the rest? 
That of an unkind word by me 
"Which she once wept at silently. 
Why doth it thus come? ; Twas forgiven 

And blotted by a hand above, 
I trust, from out the book of heaven. 

Were there no words of tender love 
That as I muse to-night alone 
With melancholy joy might come? 



THE DINING ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 123 

Ah, not for joy is it now sent 

By him who summons up the thought, 
For me a better gift is meant, 

To me instruction hath it brought. 
The present shall become the past, 

Even as those years have from me fled, 
May I not, lingering till the last, 

Number those living with the dead ? 
The word to-day, told in the ear, 

That makes some wounded heart to burn, 
May, when that heart shall not be here, 

Back to my bosom barbed, return. 

When we do look within to find, 

Whose image on our breasts we wear, 
We learn that not the loftiest mind 

Doth grave its name most deeply there, 
But the forgiving, true and kind; 
And knowing this, and that above 

All offerings that can rendered be, 
To us, we most do covet love, 

It hath a marvel been to me, 
That o'er ourselves the victory 
We strive not harder to attain, 
Though for ourselves alone the gain. 



124 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Doth not a hasty spirit fling 

That one first drop of bitterness 
Into love's never-failing spring, 

That else would flow forth but to bless? 
Or like an unquenched spark it lies, 

Even 'midst the gathered bonds of home, 
It fires, it snaps the tender ties 

That do bind brethren into one. 
And I have marked its wondrous power — 

One early frost blights all the plain, 
It nips the bud, it kills the flower — 

'Tis winter ere they bloom again. 
For (to put simile apart,) 

The passion lodged in me so deep, 
Its likeness hath in every heart, 

Which but a word may rouse from sleep. 

Oh for that calm and equal mind 

Whose peace a breath may not disturb, 
Who, though the soil seems all unkind, 
Some hidden virtue still will find, 

And its own enmity doth curb. 
Few spots of earth have fruitless proved 

When faithful hands have come to till, 
Few hearts but some have justly loved, 

Few but we may love if we will. 



THE DIXIXG ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 125 

Are any pure? Hath love a law 

By which unmingled, spotless worth 
Alone may claim fair gifts from her? 

Then, may she turn to-day from earth ! 
But bands who live by lawless strife, 

Some pledges from her still do keep, 
True each to each they war through life; 

And when the parting cometh, weep. 

Affection then asks to be sought 

Like veins in treasure-yielding ground, 

Perchance from depths it must be brought, 
Upon the surface may abound- 
Somewhere the ore is always found. 

And having found it, oh how fair 

Th' uncovered mass shows to the light! 

The whole, wide, stony waste doth wear 
Xew worth and beauty in our sight. 

The gold is reached ! Its hue we see, 
All hid in our own breasts of such 

By some mysterious alchemy 

Thrills at its first life-giving touch— - 

Love is the child of sympathy! 

Yet well I know that reasoning, 
Xor the most finished argument 
9 



126 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Can to our hearts this temper bring, 
By which we seek in every thing, 

For cause to love : 'tis heaven-sent. 
Much less can pictured portrait fair 

Of its mild beauty and its power, 
Give it a lasting being there, — • 

Mere sentiment dies with the hour. 
For like all virtues this must bear, — 
Here, banished from its native place, 
Housed, pent up with a hostile race, 
Its cross, and even thorns must wear. 
He who would keep it must go armed, 

Marshaling his powers, not 'gainst the foe, 
But that the foe may pass unharmed, 

Willing to deal his own the blow. 
Nay, even friends, when thought hath gone, 
By very kindness tempted on, 
And virtue's seeming helplessness, 
May wound him whom they first should bless. 

How shall we gain this treasure then, 
This charity which doth let fall 

The veil that malice lifts, again ? 
Thus come wc to the sum of all, 



THE DINING ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 127 

As earth in no far desert hold, 

Nor to the centre of her sphere 
Doth treasure such as this enfold, 
More pure than is her virgin gold — 
Vain is the hope that searcheth here. 
We must look up. As fair appear, 
Wide stretching o'er some moonless night, 
The countless worlds there robed in light, 
So all heaven's virtues, glorious too 
Hang o'er us hidden from our view, 
And as those worlds revolving far 
Beyond the gazer's influence are, 
So when the soul with opened eye 
Those stars sees in that upper sky, 
It feels its deep infirmity, — 
If thou canst curb by thine own force 
One planet rolling in its course, 
And bring it captive unto thee, 
Then hast thou gained the power at length ] 
Unaided by thy native strength, 
To pluck one spotless virtue down 
From heaven and cry, "It is mine own! 7 / 

Yet 'neath these virtues do we live, 
And though with blind polluted sense 



128 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

May of their healing power receive 
And be ruled by their influence. 

They are for us, for knowest thou not, 
Who, when ascending up on high 

Bore with him gifts his blood had bought, 
And captive led captivity ? 

He will bestow them still on thee, 
If humbly sought with reverend care, 

So now come we to victory, 

Yea, the reward too is hid there — 
The power that virtue wins is prayer. 

Oh, wondrous power, by which alone, 

I, born to want and poverty, 
May to the glorious threshold come, 
Yea, pass up to the very Throne — 
How am I poor possessing thee ? 

I stand on earth — thou lift'st me hence — 

I reach to starry heights sublime, 
I touch their loftiest eminence, 
I deathless virtues pluck from thence, 
And fill my bosom — they are mine! 

Flickering within its socket, weak 
My candle scarce doth hold its flame, 



THE DINING ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 129 

It sinketh now — now doth it seek, 

Running swift down the wick again. 
To draw new life and sustenance 
As it was wont to draw it thence. 
Slow it returns, the store is done, — 
Now but a spot it hath become, 
'Tis fainter, fainter — it is gone ! 
But the spark left is not quite fled, 
It sends forth wreaths of smoke overhead, 
It varieth like the flame before; 
Plays the same game to hope once more 
Till it too darkens, and is dead. 

I marvel not that men have seen, 
Ever in this slight incident, 

Pictured, the moment when hath been 
A summons to the spirit sent, — 
So doth the body hoard its breath, 
And yield unwillingly to death; 

But in this likeness we forget 
That all of languor imaged there 

Is of the body — youthful, yet, 
The soul doth but its wrappings wear, 
Which loosened, falling off at length, 
Leave it freed in immortal strength! 



130 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

Methinks, at such a time and place 

Did heavenly heralds, as of old, 
Meet and speak with us face to face, 

I might celestial converse hold. 
He who by darkness compassed round, 
Slumb'ring upon the desert ground, 
Saw angels in th' illumined air 
Ascending and descending there, 
While One above more glorious stood, 
Lay not in deeper solitude. 
But this may not be, day nor night 
Shall e'er unveil Him to my sight, 
Who, from all flesh hath hid in light. 
Is he then not? Is there no God? 
Do I whose wisdom cannot show 
How the green blade doth spring and grow, 
'Midst worlds that mock at me from thence, 
Stand the first, high intelligence ? 

Yet banished here, far from the skies, 

Groping 'midst this world's gloom about — 

My lamp obscured by mists that rise, 
Not of the Truth, but mine own doubt, 

I've said, "To see Him with mine eyes, 
Oh, that some path might find Him out!" 



THE DINING ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 131 

So foolish am I? — Hath his word 

Then ceased ? or is his providence 
With daily utterance no more heard? 

Turn I from these to grosser sense ? 
Should some pure seraph, even now, 

In answer to my call appear 
Bright from the throne where such do bow, — 

Doth not a still voice yet more near 
Whisper all that I then might hear? 
Thus would he speak, " Though legions were 

Like me, to teach, they could impart 
To thee no more abounding light 

Than that now shed upon thine heart. 
Wandering long since in rayless night 

Thy Saviour found thee. On a way 
He placed thy feet that upward led, 

Yet told thee dark clouds round it lay. 
Thy soul rejoiced, was comforted 

Through darkness even, to hope for day. 
Now, dost thou murmur, faint and pine 
Because those promised clouds are thine ? 
Think'st thou such mists can blind his eye, 
Or seen not, he hath passed thee by? 

Canst thou not trust? Be still, oh man, 
And when 'midst shadows thou must wait, 



132 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 

"Know they are part of love's great plan, 
Remember now thy first estate. 

Weary not of thine earthly days — 

Cut off from these, how could' st thou rear 
An offering to thy Maker's praise? 
Nor let thine earthly task appear 
Beneath thee; and in secret cry, 

"All things are brief and fleeting here, — 
My soul doth loathe them, let me die!" 
Doth he who polisheth the gem 
To deck some royal diadem, 
Or shapes the block for palace walls 
Work velvet-clothed, in gilded halls? 
So is thy task to thee unknown, 
But when it shall be done at last, 
These fleshly garments from thee cast, 
And this vast house of toil o'erthrown, 
Then shall its end to thee be shown — 
Each block, each jewel shalt thou see 
Fixed beauteous in eternity." 



THE KELEASB. 

I thought, as by my friend's sick couch I stood, 
How like the way is made we all must tread, 
Feeble and suffering, downward to the tomb! 
If we could take this from our portion off, 
Disease and the accompaniments of death, 
And go up lifted as Elijah was, 
Unto that rest now reached alone through them, 
How many who do shrink from year to year, 
And tremble o'er the last delivering step 
Would crowd life's farther threshold! It is well 
Some slight, imagined bar should hold us back, 
Or clamours for deliverance would arise 
Till they should trouble Heaven. 
133 



A CLOUD. 

The morning's sun was risen high, 
One white cloud floated in the sky, 
Its great full folds like silver shone 
Against the blue it trod alone. 

Beside my path I sat me down, 
And gazing on the heavenly isle 

Methought, " If tempests are thy frown, 
Sweet cloud, this calm rest is thy smile. 
If now, from heaven's depths afar, 
Or some unknown and nameless star, 
A spirit in descending flight 
Should break on mine uplifted sight, 

Nearer, and nearer — yet more bright, 
Until I saw his wings enfold, 

And him on thy steep brink alight, 
How would it ravish to behold!" 
But what is this? All fancy's boast 
Is nothing to that living host 
134 



A CLOUD. 135 

Who flit around Heav'n's viewless coast! 

Viewless as yet; no eye can see 

Those borders of eternity, 

But soon to all 'twill opened be. 

Oh, may I then behold that land, 

And with th' uprisen nations stand, 

Who gather at the Lamb's right hand ! 



THE END. 



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